The Lord and the Cat
by sodalite
Summary: Miscellaneous short fiction concerning Tom and Minerva.
1. The Hunted

**The Lord and the Cat.**

**Short fiction concerning Tom and Minerva.**

The Hunted.

There are two words scrawled on the page that sits forlornly on the desk, upon which Tom is tapping his pencil. He relishes in the hollow thud, which echoes with satisfying regularity around the room. The sound seems to slash the air around him until his only thoughts are consumed in a haze of decorative (yet entirely pretend) red ribbons.

He wants to write more but he does not know what. At a loss he glances around the room, observing carefully the figures leaning carelessly across individual desks. No doubt, he thinks, spewing out tales amongst the guts of fallen heroes. He has no time for heroics or chivalry.

Looking upon their faces he does not see them as children but rather through them, to the ever-shattering bones beyond their worn clothes.

Their decaying corpses are writing stories of assassins and of creatures seeking prey.

They do not know and he finds he is jealous of this.

They are the only prey in the world.

They are the hunted ones, caught like their fictional characters in a frenetic, epic chase.

It is then, as his eyes fall upon the stinking flesh that he finds – quite suddenly, that he knows what to write, for he is led by the pen and by his knowledge. And perhaps, by innate influences regarding destiny and divine intention, though he will not allow himself to consider such a ridiculous possibility.

_  
Everything crumbles in a confused haze of love and hatred, of peace and of war. Of passionate heat and an icy winter that will never turn to spring._

_Somewhere - hidden - an orchestra plays the epic soundtrack - enough to build a mountain out of tears._

_Everything crumbles with the passing of time._

_Time is a mortal concept._

_Everything crumbles because of those who are mortal.  
_

He stifles a yawn, tired now, because he cannot sleep without being woken by his unconscious imagination.

He awakens always to a dark, forceful silence and can do no more but pad quietly to the window to gaze out upon the sleeping street. He will count the flickering streetlamps over and over until he falls into an uncomfortable state of rest against the windowpane, his circling breath casting an ethereal mist upon the view.

He does not attempt to justify this to those whose coarse hands shake him awake under the grey light of dawn.

He merely places the pen on the page and grants it the liberty to run. Behind it he follows on a leash.

_  
Without mortality there can be no time._

_Without mortality loss may become an alien concept._

_A child who speaks to his mother only through his nightmares may be relieved of his endless torture._

_The same little boy who watched a helpless woman force from her insides a child. Her screaming rising and falling to the tune of the hand of time. Divinity of mortal creation lifts and flings her down ceaseless until silence falls with the night.  
The wail of the night is infinitely worse.  
There is a mound in the flowerbed that marks the place of the helpless, silent doll.  
_

He wants more than this.

He deserves more than just this.

His tutor will not be happy since his neglect of proper story structure is akin to blasphemy of a most terrible kind. His tutor is not intelligent enough to see that his single sheaf of paper is only a fragment of a greater story.

He scribbles a vague, appropriate ending, which may serve to assuage the demands of his tutor although he harbours doubts about this and wonders why he bothers at all.

_  
The boy was made blind by what he saw - his vision torn cruelly away by the sights of a mortal existence._

_He journeys alone, in perpetual darkness, until he comes to rest in a place where life does not exist._

_There he is buried and there he decays forever.  
_

No more nightmares, he decides.

It is a conscious decision.

He will not fall victim to the ceaseless hunter of time, somehow, by way of a non-existent fate, in which he does not believe, he will force things to change. In the street outside a peculiar, bearded man comes to a halt outside the orphanage.


	2. A Question of Names

**The Lord and the Cat.**

**Short Fiction concerning Tom and Minerva.**

A Question of names.

Minerva sat alone beside the lake, beneath the autumn leaves on the trees at the edge of the forest. She glanced at her watch nervously, eight minutes past seven. It wasn't like Tom to be late. She held her hands tightly in her lap, to stop them fidgeting. All this time, the one day she finally wanted to show him something, wanted more than anything to see him, to touch him, he was late.

She pressed her fingers to her lips, an almost unconscious gesture. It seemed to her that the memory of his kisses hung there forever; a sort of enticing sign that he was always there. She smiled.

"Thinking of me?" Came a voice from behind; she jumped.

"Tom!"

"Sorry. You were thinking, I didn't want to disturb you."

"I'm sure," said Minerva, with some scepticism.

"Don't I get a kiss?"

"Of course. If you tell me why you were so late."

Tom pulled a face, "Slughorn." He said, by way of explanation.

"Ah. He has been watching you then?"

"Too closely. I think questioning on horcruxes might have aroused his suspicions."

Minerva laughed at that, "It's because you're so evil."

Tom glanced downwards for a moment, "I wish they understood the difference, you know. Especially Slughorn, he is a Slytherin, he ought to have some concept of subtlety."

"Slughorn may be the exception, even I understand the difference between being Dark and being Evil. Not," she added quickly, "That I want you to start playing around with magic that might be deemed 'Dark Arts'."

"You wouldn't complain if I discovered the secret to immortality."

"Forever in the company of Tom Riddle? Sounds tempting," she said, pulling him towards her, "What about that kiss?"

He smiled; allowing her to wrap her slender arms around his waist, let her mouth meet his, in a peculiar moment of fiery passion and pure love. This was nothing like the very first kiss they had shared, all those months ago – a clumsy, hesitant meeting of mouths and tongues. They were more confidant now, certain of their relationship and of their belonging together. Sometimes when she was alone, Minerva couldn't believe she could have been so lucky. Neither knew how long they remained like that, but it didn't matter. When they were in each other's company nothing mattered but that moment of their love.

"What did you want to show me?" He said, as they reluctantly relinquished the contact.

She smiled, a bright, beautiful smile, and took a step back. Then with no warning, in her place was a grey tabby cat, watching him intently.

"Wow." Said Tom.

"You like it?" asked Minerva, as she morphed back into herself.

"Of course I like it, Pussy," he said, cheekily, "When did you-"

"Last night. I couldn't sleep so I went for a walk. I ran into Mrs Norris, and it was the only way I could think to escape. Did you just call me Pussy?"

"You stopped worrying about the change and just did it." He said, understanding immediately, deliberately ignoring the comment about her name.

"It will make it easier for us to meet," she said, causing him to elicit a soft smile. She touched his face gently.

"Look," Said Tom, pulling from his bag a scrap of parchment, he looked up at her, meeting her eyes, "since you have a nickname…"

"I hardly think that 'Pussy' constitutes a nickname," said Minerva, softly, with slightly raised eyebrows, "Though I appreciate the sentiment."

Tom laughed. She liked his laugh, it was cold and arrogant almost, but behind it, she saw so much. Behind him, she saw so much. She could not imagine not loving him the way she did. He was writing now. She could read the words upside down. Tom Marvolo Riddle.

"I don't understand," she said.

"Shhh, watch." He flicked his wand over the parchment, and the letters rearranged themselves. It was a wonder, Minerva thought, how was he able to make even letters move with such elegance?

I am Lord Voldemort.

"Clever," she said, staring at the words glistening on the parchment, "How long did it take you to figure it out?"

Tom smirked, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, and allowing her to lean against him, "not long."

Minerva gazed at the writing, "Why?" She asked, suddenly.

"Why Lord Voldemort?"

"It's a little…arrogant, don't you think?"

He laughed again, "I thought you liked my being arrogant?"

"Yes, I do. Really," she said, "But, Tom, must everyone else also know?"

"That I am arrogant? I was under the impression they already did." He gave a slight smirk, which only earned him a half-hearted slap.

"Are you ever going to use that nickname publicly?"

"Would you use 'Pussy'?" he asked, slyly, "I wouldn't dream of it, Min, I am Lord Voldemort, at your service and yours alone." He bent down to kiss her gently, placing his hands on her body, exploring.

"Well then, My Lord," said Minerva, running her fingers slowly down his back, "perhaps you can show me something special."


	3. Sepia Notions

**The Lord and the Cat.**

**Short fiction concerning Tom and Minerva.**

Sepia Notions.

_October.  
September.  
November._

Albus was young and impulsive, and thought it a good idea to introduce compulsory milk to all students. Apparently it was a practice commonly undertaken in Muggle schools. There was some vague romantic notion that he clearly harboured beneath that hair and beard. I've no idea what and in later years ceased to care for the Dumbledore of my youth. (He felt it wrong that he could be intimately involved with the memory of a student. Personally, I find it a trial to induce consideration either way, or even work out what he meant).

The instant he took the photograph (another romantic notion – Muggle photography) an owl swooped down from the sky towards the owlery and knocked me flat. Tom laughed. Only moments earlier I had been fussing over a tiny stain on my dress. Now it would be stained grass. He bent down and caught my hand to pull me up.  
Lips met and parted. Who saw?

The bird sat on a window ledge, observing with indolent patience. I still maintain that it knew the contents of its message, taking sadistic pleasure in watching me giggle.  
_Witch and Wizard killed in tragic accident! Two members of the McGonagall family died last Tuesday when a Gringotts cart exploded beneath London…_

I ceased reading.

I giggled?

_September:_ I fell from a wall and hit my head on a rock. Awakened two days later.

_October:_ I kissed Tom, or rather he kissed me. I don't remember when. Or why. I smiled for days afterwards, though he was so young it felt vaguely indecent.

_November:_ "You're just like me," he'd said. I wept. "I'll take care of you."  
A kind gesture from such a sweet child.

What happened when?  
Perhaps I never knew.  
Or perhaps I'm simply growing old.  
In truth I do not want to know.

_Present:_ Albus comes up behind me. An arm wrapped loosely over my shoulders.  
"You're tense," he comments.  
I gesture – the movement impeded by his arm. "Tom," I say.  
"Yes." One word and my lover falls silent.

_Click._ The shutter does not open again.


End file.
